ending ends

have we told the truth even to ourselves, our sense of self, this formation that graved in thin air is reflected back at us as light patterns on eyes that cannot see themselves. is that me? i dont recognize that face or the reality of that instant. this consciousness is plain, it exists as a force like gravity, exposing all to its touch. the knowing wind twists around every nook and cranny and whispers to us from its play, the rocks remain fixed to the immovable earth, by gravity's presence. where am i, is there any idea, except here. when am i, but now. there is nothing but what i impose on consciousness. this must be real since i experience it? is it my experience or am i just noticing consciousness flowing through me? am i holding the world together, or am i just noticing gravity? who is the knower, the experiencer? am i me? do i have a reality separate from my preferences? this sense of awareness, like smell, as the odors are released they demand a target, a point of agreement that there is a shared experience, one the odor releaser, one the odor sampler. what is the purpose of smelling, but to satisfy the release of saturated ions. is it me that creates either of these? i am but the passing stranger to the unending play, the release and capture of existence. i create none of it but am only sampling, touching as the wind pushes me further through this dream. nothing is mine only the play of the weaving of the dreams together. i sense but only because the dream sensates, what is sense, only awareness, the force released through all existence, passed through everything, the very completion of the creation, the manifestation, to be known. by what, me? this ephemeral creature, dipped from the well of being, encapsulated in this form, and then shook out like a drop of water from a cloud back to the sea of its origin? that is the purpose? i release that fantasy to the wind also. all is the divine, that which from, all flows as its dream and as its sensated self would know and through this encapsulated self would also realize the fullness of its creation, both as one unending truth and as a trillion falsenesses becoming truth and returning like a sunbeam to the star. i am that is that become I, and all one, is everyone, the truth unseen and realized both. there is no end to the truth and no beginning to the false, what is, exists like the i in me, unfolds from one pinprick in the fabric of lies to the unending graciousness of the light of truth that projects each thought and feeling upon my consciousness. i begin again as that which has never begun and from which all ending ends.